


Castle

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Calisthenics, Confessions, Gen, Male Solo, Storytelling, fitness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: “I believe,” says Aramis, “that it’s your turn now.”“So,” he coughs, “which is it to be?” Aramis’s eyes widen. “You, er, you said you’d choose.”“Ah, yes,” and he grins slowly. Porthos steels himself. “You said you’d experienced climax without direct touch…”Fuck. “Yes.”“Well, go on, then.”He rallies. “You want me to…” with a raise of his eyebrows, takes a small delight in Aramis colouring.“Just tell me the story,” he replies, rather shortly.“All right then… but it won’t be poetical.”***It’s Porthos’s turn to tell a story, and Aramis has turned up this incautious confession from their recent game of I Have Never(Nevertheless, where the Inseparables learned quite how inseparable Athos and d’Artagnan have become, for one thing, andexactlywhat Constance thinks of that)A standalone fic about delicious bodily mysteries.





	Castle

Porthos sniffs, stretches his shoulders, half-watches Aramis in the light of the mess fire through his eyelashes. Aramis’s eyes are lost under the brim of his hat again, contemplating the mysteries partially revealed by his tale of kisses and confusion.

Porthos is trying not to think too hard about it, but his brother Musketeer has a gift for storytelling, and the images of him and an actor in passionate embrace are strong in his head, hard to dislodge. He needs a distraction. Maybe another hand…?

“I believe,” says Aramis, slowly, “that it’s your turn now.”

“Ah. Yeah.” He scratches his neck. “If you’d still like…”

“Oh, please.”

“So,” he coughs, “which is it to be?” Aramis’s eyes widen. “You, er, you said you’d choose.”

“Ah, yes,” and he grins slowly, letting memory bloom. Porthos steels himself. “You said you’d experienced climax without direct touch…”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Well, go on, then.”

He rallies. “You want me to…” with a raise of his eyebrows, takes a small delight in Aramis colouring.

“Just tell me the story,” he replies, rather shortly.

Porthos’s victory smirk fades. “All right then… but it won’t be poetical.”

“But it will be true.” Some of the poet’s dreaming tone is back.

“That it will.” He takes a deep breath. “All right. You know the new swordmaster…?”

Aramis’s eyebrow rises, silent and swift into his hair.

“Not like _that_. Ugh. Okay, here’s how it is…”

*  *  *

Look, I’m going to keep this simple. It’ll be to the point, all right? No, you know. Pissing about.

Like I say, it starts with the swordmaster. Fabron. What can I say? I was sure he was great for new recruits and others who needed, how shall I put this? A bit of a helping hand. Lambert, DuBois, that lot. Big mouths, not so much to show. Didn’t think much else about it, if I’m honest.

But he cornered me one day by the stable block. Just got back off what should have been a five hour stint at the Palace that turned into eight when my relief didn’t show, and not in the best mood. Standing still and smiling at the occasional toff does nothing for my sunny disposition. Especially without lunch. I just wanted to get on the outside of a pie and some beer. I wasn’t even in the mood for cards, and now you know what a rare mood it was.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.

I just grunt and keep going. It’s true, but I’m not letting him know that.

“You think you’re too good for my training, is that it?” he calls out from behind.

Bit of a sharp escalation, you get me? Like we’d been having this argument for a while when this was the first I’d heard of it.

I take a breath, hold it, swing round on the out-breath. He’s nearly my height, broad shoulders, good reach, long hands, solid-ish chest. Neck a bit long and slender, hair to his shoulders. I realise I’m looking for strengths and weaknesses, like we’re going to tangle straight away. Nah. But I let him see I’m looking, and I see him hunch his left shoulder, close his left fist a little.

Okay.

I squeeze my face into a quick, fake smile that says _not today, son_. “It’s been a long day,” I tell him, softly. “I don’t want to do this now.”

“Then when?”

“I didn’t realise my absence ached your heart so hard.” And I lift a corner of my mouth. “You want to work on managing your disappointment better.”

His jaw clenches twice, and I just look at him.

“I’m hungry,” I say, slowly, “and I’m thirsty, and I’m _really_ fucking tired. This can wait, can’t it?”

“All right,” he says, equally slowly, nods, turns, and off he fucks.

I’m shaking my head as I head to the mess. I think what Treville would say if I creased his new swordmaster. It probably isn’t worth it.

Next day he’s there, though, waiting for me by the stable block again.

“Not today,” I tell him. “See this messenger satchel? Know what that’s for?”

“I get it, I get it,” he says, hands in the air. “You don’t have time to get yourself in shape.”

“I’m in. Shape,” I say, words bitten short. “The days I’m not guarding, riding out, staking out, or tailing, I’m sparring, wrestling, shooting. I train. I’m fine.”

“I could make you finer.”

I sigh. “Your sister didn’t think so,” and head for my horse. He doesn’t follow. “Nor did your mum!” I call. Nothing.

He’s there when I get back from the exchange. “Seriously?” I say.

“Seriously.”

“Go ask d’Artagnan,” I say. “He’s keen. Go ask Athos - he loves a bit of punishment. I don’t need it.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “I just want to be sure I’ll win my bet.”

Crafty bastard, but I walk right into it. “What bet?”

“Well,” he says, scratching his nose, “I don’t like to say.”

“You can say,” I tell him, walking closer. “What’s the bet?”

“Well, I said you couldn’t do it, and they said you could.”

“Do what?”

“Press-ups.”

I feel my lip curling. “Them? Easy.”

“Want to bet?”

“Yeah, as it goes.”

“And you’ll do more than me?”

“Easy.”

Yeah, you can say it: I’m a fucking idiot. He’d clearly been asking around, looking for _my_ weaknesses. Besides, I’d never done one in my life - seen ’em done, never been interested. Running, marching, shooting, swordplay, wrestling, marksmanship - all I’ve ever done and all I need. Throwing things, throwing men? Easy. Practice, then do it for real. Tactics? All right - you’ve got to learn _when_ to take the shot, who to hit first, but come on. I don’t need to jump around in a courtyard or swing myself around like I’m dancing. Foolish, innit?

But I think: I’d best learn how to do this. I don’t want anyone saying _that ain’t a proper press-up, you forfeit_.

So I go watch them, all humping away in unison, looking as disinterested as I can manage, thinking: okay, that’s using a lot of your body, right enough. I can see why people might do that who weren’t actually doing all those moves already. And I can see him watching me, so I give a little smile and a wave and head up to ask Treville if we’ve any orders, anything at all.

Training day for you, I’m told. Okay.

Three livres, that’s all. Three livres to say that I can’t do more of the fucking things than Golden Balls.

I go to my room and get into position on the floor. Face-down, toes curled under, hands by my shoulders. Push down to bring myself up. My arse sags in the middle and I feel it in my back and shoulders.

Hmm.

I see how they were doing it in my mind’s eye, try again, this time keeping everything straight like I’m standing to attention, pushing forward like I’m against a wall. That’s better - the whole of me rises up in a single push. Feels good. I try a couple more, notice I’m feeling pretty warm for such a slow set of moves, so take off my doublet and boots before getting back into position. The next five come smooth. I’m kind of laughing now. I’ve been asking around and all, and I know he never does more than thirty press-ups in a row. Forty of these is going to be a piece of piss. Ten more now. Slightly less easy and my wrists are whingeing a bit about doing this on a hard, wooden floor, but I’m betting he’ll have us out in the courtyard, and that’s stone, so get used to it, wrists.

I balance on one hand at a time to shake the other out, noticing how my belly’s clenching to keep me straight. Makes sense.

Back down again and five more. My arms are starting to tremble a bit, but I’m pushing through, a bit slower now. And then I feel it as I get to the next one, and it’s weirdly distracting, so I keep going anyway, puzzled, then stop as it gets stronger.

Fuck. I must need a piss. I stop, get up and have one, but there’s nothing much to show for it. Fuck. I try to think - it’s been a while since my last shag, and I was pretty careful, so it can’t be that, surely, but you never know.

Bollocks. Well, I’ll keep an eye on myself, drink a lot of water, go to the apothecary if needs be.

I roll and stretch my shoulders, shake out my arms, then go to find someone to spar with. Luckily, Athos is up for it, and I can focus on the discipline of the thing rather than the small unease in my belly, or whether Fabron is watching me.

A week to go until the wager is on.

Every day I try in my room, and every day I get a little further before I feel queasy, or like I have to piss, or feel far too warm, and each time I wonder if I’m getting sick, but nothing occurs the rest of each day, and I’m getting no worse; not feverish, not losing appetite. Each day I shrug it off and eye Fabron sideways. He’s got a surprise coming, that’s for sure, the cocky git.

I suppose it was lucky he decided to make it a small thing rather than face humiliation in front of the whole regiment, but we needed witnesses for the count-off, so it was Treville and Athos, in the end.

I dunno - I think you were up at the Palace, and the pup was off being lovesick somewhere.

Yeah, I’m an arsehole. Runs in the family, apparently.

Anyway, we’re there in the armoury, and Athos is going to count me off and Treville Fabron. Athos has rolled his eyes only twice at the whole thing, which is as good as we’re going to get, and I know he’ll take the counting seriously, even though he’s going to laugh at me later, whatever happens.

Go, says Treville, and we’re off. We start pretty fast, then settle to a pace we can keep up. Ten. Twenty. Thirty, and I’m starting to feel it a bit, but no nausea, so that’s all right. I roll my shoulders briefly at the top of one push, and get back into it. Thirty-five and the weirdness is starting to whisper in my belly, but I ignore it, plough on. Thirty-eight and thirty-nine are slower than I’d like, but solid enough. I cut a look at Athos and he raises an eyebrow, looks over towards Treville, then makes a _keep going_ roll of fingers at me.

Beside me, Fabron starts to grunt a little, so he’s clearly feeling it now. That gives me a bit of heart so I push on through forty and forty-one, and the feeling is building, but I’ve been thinking, and this isn’t just about the money, this is about making sure I don’t have to jump around like a silly bugger every time Fabron wants a performing dog for the rest of the regiment, so I grit my teeth and get through the next three okay.

And then I have the stupid idea to try to hold my breath as well as gritting my teeth.

Within three more pushes it’s clear this is making things worse, not better. There’s a pressure rising inside me.

“Breathe, you idiot,” hisses Athos. I risk a look up, and he’s got that look on. You know - like… yeah, that one. Okay, bigger eyes now and frown a bit more. Sort of push your mouth together like you’ve smelled something terrible but you’re too well-bred to say. Yeah. Exactly that.

I’m sweating like a pig now, so maybe that’s prompting his scandalised mush. I’m not thinking too clearly, but I’m pushing on through. The problem isn’t my arms, after all. I could keep doing this all day. I.

Hmm.

Next to me, Fabron gives this great, gusty groan, but I don’t know his score, and I don’t actually know mine anymore, so I need to…

My belly gives this lurch, and it’s like everything clenches together harder while trying to loosen and… fuck.

Fuck.

I push again, slow. I’m definitely tiring.

Also: I finally know what’s going on, impossible though it seems.

And I need to keep going. And I absolutely have to stop.

But I really, _really_ want to keep going.

Next to me, there’s a kind of _whump_ as Fabron hits the floor, groans from the pit of his belly and gasps: “I’m done.”

I hold myself up on my arms, swaying, God-damn _tingling_ , and manage to say: “What’s the score?” through my teeth, everything shaking.

Treville says, tightly: “Fabron has forty-eight.”

Athos says, cold as ever: “Porthos has fifty-two.”

What?

Wow.

Okay, so I start to lower myself gently, and that’s no good - worse, if anything - so I fling myself sideways all clumsy, roll onto my arse, dazed. Athos reaches into my eyeline and I grab his arm and rise, feeling terrible twinges… everywhere, but in my lower belly especially, and my head goes woozy as I hit standing. I’m amazed I _can_ stand, frankly.

It’s not worth thinking about, so I say: “Thanks, gents,” pick up my doublet, swordbelt, and hat, and lurch for the door. Say this for Athos - he knows when a man wants to be alone.

Behind me, I hear Fabron calling, in a muffled voice: “What about your money?”

I half-turn, catch Treville’s eye. He’s none too amused. “Er, later, mate, yeah?”

I have to get away. I have to get away _now_.

The way I see it, I have two choices: I can go to the tavern, drink myself blind, never do another press-up again, and the problem will be solved.

Or I can indulge my… curiosity. I mean: maybe I was wrong.

Up in my room, I strip, and get myself in position, almost _hearing_ my shoulders creak as I push up, swing down, push up, swing down, almost feeling disappointment, holding my breath, then it comes again, twice as powerful, everything slowing, everything tensing, my arms telling me they can’t do anything else, me saying _one more, just one more_ , pushing through it ragged and slow as hell and then.

Fuck.

I get through that one gasping, right on the edge, bend again and push and it’s like I’m lifting a house, and I get to the top of the movement shouting, my vision whiting out, and I hang there, rocking, my body shot through with more pleasure than I’ve ever felt in my life, insanely intense.

I don’t know how to describe it, brother. Think of the best blowjob you ever had and… times it up a bunch. But cold, you know? But amazing.

Anyway, I look down and thank God I’d decided to do this naked, just in case. I have spent all over the floor. I manage to get my knees down and kind of fall over sideways, laughing my arse off.

My arms are on fire. My belly is on fire. I’m feeling no actual pain yet, still ringing all over with climax. You know how it is, I’m sure. My cock is wilting slowly and I’m curled up on the bare boards, laughing like an idiot, stopping, smelling the scent of my own spend and going off into giggles again.

It was a while before I could get up again, I can tell you.

*  *  *

Aramis looks down at where his brother has been demonstrating good press-up form, watches him roll up to his feet, dust himself down, and sit back in his chair.

“Just like that,” he murmurs.

“Well, a lot more of ’em, obviously, but yeah. Just like that.”

“Right.”

“Well?”

“Well. That… did not go where I was expecting…”

“And where was that?”

“I have no idea.” Actually, he had, and it was nothing to do with exercise. He’d assumed that was the lead-in, a setting of scenes.

No pissing about. Right.

Porthos smirks one-sided, eyes bright.

“And why are you looking so pleased with yourself?” He can hear his tone, and it’s not quite as bouncy as he’d like it. There’s a sourness that weighs on the banter.

If Porthos hears it, he affects not to notice. “I surprised you,” he explains, cheerfully.

“Yes, you did,” he replies, relieved to hear that there’s warmth inside his chest and out in his voice. “I’d honestly never heard of such a thing.”

“And you a medical man.”

“Barely.” He loses a moment to contemplation. “Do you…” he starts, slowly, “still…?”

“Oh yeah. When I have the time. Just not, you know, in company.”

Aramis lets out a bark of laughter, surprising even himself. “You’ll have thews you could bounce rocks off at this rate.”

Porthos mock-preens. “I already do.”

They laugh. Then Aramis snorts, pointing at Porthos.

“What?”

“‘Taking care of business’!” and he curls up slightly, sniggering.

“What?”

“Well, you know, that thing you say when you excuse yourself to…”

“Yeah?”

“And I’m just imagining you, in the woods, doing onanistic calisthenics in the undergrowth instead.”

“You’re just imagining me, are you?”

A pause. “Yes…?”

“Naked.”

Another pause. “Well, I am _now_ …”

“Aramis,” he says, shaking his head, “we’re going to have to have a word about that imagination of yours.”

“I imagine we do.”

Porthos shakes his head again. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

And it’s on the tip of his tongue to say: “Yes, you can,” but he thinks better of it.

This is Porthos. Closer than any brother. And tomorrow’s vow awaits.

There’s time. Time to redeem himself yet.

He picks up his wine. “Hark at the wind,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it really is a real thing, and yes, it really can happen to penis-owning humans as well.
> 
> Colloquially known as “coregasm”, researchers call it “Exercise-Induced Orgasm”, or EIO for short. There’s still some debate as to the how and why, but you can find all sorts of articles online if you wish to experiment to find out whether you’re in that lucky (but often red-faced at the gym) portion of the population.
> 
> Tip for those of you wanting to try this at home: when you think you’ve reached your last possible rep, do like Porthos, and push on through to another one. And always observe good form. And don’t sacrifice safe and sane to chase an orgasm - that’s a good way to get injured, kids. Ahem. Not that I’d know. Obviously…


End file.
